Head Coach EPB

by Lia Riley

  He watched her wordlessly as she threw open the door and dove into the noisy bar. How fucking stupid to think that there was anything magic about a frantic hookup in a dingy bar bathroom. This wasn’t a happy accident but one giant mistake, which for a moment felt so damn right.

  Chapter Seven

  “What the hell, were you two fuckin’ or what?”

  “Such a lovely command you have of the English language.” Neve grimaced at the frat boy’s sour beer breath as he blocked her path from the bathroom, leering from beneath the brim of his white hat. “I’ll go with ‘or what,’ thanks.”

  “I better not be slipping in no sticky shit.” The white hat’s wet mouth twisted in a lecherous smirk as he tried focusing over her shoulder. His eyes widened as he noticed who stood behind her. “Hold up . . . Coach? Tor Gunnar, dude. Holy shit, no way, you’re a legend.”

  The dude-bro frat boy pushed past her, literally shoving her out of the way and extending a hand. “Those were some legit plays that last game, man. The lockout blows. Guess you deserve getting a little stinky pinky—”

  What fresh hell was this? Neve’s throat slammed shut and she bolted out of the back hall into the throng in the bar. It was like playing the world’s worst game of Would You Rather. Would you rather maul your nemesis in The Watering Hole bathroom or hear a frat boy use the words stinky pinky in reference to your own vagina?

  Two sets of curious eyes watched her approach the table. Breezy and Jed had called a halftime in their round of tonsil hockey. Neve heaved an inward groan. Guess she was supposed to be the entertainment.

  “Where’s Margot?” she asked, as if she’d merely gone to the bathroom and never in ten million years compiled research about the size and shape of Tor Gunnar’s dick.

  But if there was one person in the world who was impossible to fool, it was a sister.

  “Margot’s made a new friend, as per usual.” Breezy gestured toward the bar, where Margot sat on the counter, legs swinging, and still whispering to the cute bartender. “But what’s up?” Her gaze narrowed. “Your cheeks are red.”

  “Hey.”

  Neve stiffened as Tor slid into the seat beside her. She refused to glance over and instead focused on his hand, the one that had just roamed the wilds of her body like Davy Crockett. It sported fresh scrapes on the knuckles, the middle one split.

  “Hey! You’re bleeding, man,” Jed said, passing him a napkin. “What were you doing?”

  Tor grabbed a napkin and pressed it to his hand as Neve’s heart skipped a beat. From the corner of her eye she saw the frat boy from the hallway storming to the exit with one eye swollen shut.

  “He defended my honor,” she broke in wryly, still unable to believe it.

  Had Tor really done that? Punched the white-hat asshole?

  Breezy and Jed paused before bursting out laughing.

  “Good one.” Her sister’s shoulders shook. “You deadpan better than anyone. For a second I almost believed you.”

  Breezy didn’t mean her amusement to come across as mean. Neve abstractly knew she laughed out of disbelief that Tor would ever be called upon to be her heroic knight in shining armor.

  But to a sour, hurting part deep in her soul, it sounded mocking.

  The gorgeous head coach of a professional hockey team body checking a drunken frat boy on my behalf? Yeah. Right. Dream on.

  “Got my hand jammed in a door while trying to get some air.” Tor drained his glass without further explanation.

  Such an obvious lie. Confusion swept through her as her brain grappled for any logic. Tor Gunnar had punched that jerk. Did he really fight for her? The notion shouldn’t be sexy. Violence was never the answer. But—gah—there was something so undeniably delicious about a straight-laced man turning into an utter caveman.

  But then again, look at the facts. He wasn’t giving her a pent-up look full of secret “I shed blood for you” passion. In fact, he stared past her shoulder as if she wasn’t even there, like what had happened in that bathroom meant nothing.

  As if he’d already forgotten it.

  A wave of insecurity swept away any arousal.

  “We got a game this weekend, playing Michigan State. Want to come offer some advice?” Jed asked him after a beat.

  Neve appreciated her sister’s boyfriend’s low tolerance for conversational silences. Let him fill the air space and keep the attention off her. And Tor’s knuckles.

  “Can’t. I’m going to a wedding.” He made it sound like he was getting a root canal.

  “Shouldn’t that be a happy occasion?” Margot plonked down, jumping in mid-conversation as usual.

  “It’s for my ex-wife,” Tor said crisply. “I’m sure she is looking forward to it.”

  Neve’s mouth dried. He was going to watch his ex-wife marry another man. Eeesh. That was on par with getting a root canal. Without novocaine.

  “Ouch, that’s no bueno.” Margot wrinkled her nose. “Hope you’ve lined up a hot date as a matter of pride.”

  “I’m flying solo,” Tor grunted.

  “Are you crazy?” Margot was never one to beat around a bush. “No, no, no! You can’t do that. That’s a rookie move. Think over your options. Who can you ask? Someone has to volunteer as tribute.”

  “My sister did. Then she fell rock climbing. Unfortunately, her rehabilitation doesn’t gel with that timetable.” Tor’s frosty rebuttal settled over the table like another ice age, freezing them into another awkward silence. Even Margot appeared to be quelled.

  “The air-hockey table has opened up.” Jed pointed, once again saving the day.

  “I’m in,” Neve announced, eager for the distraction, just as Tor muttered, “Sounds good.”

  “Ooh, competition! I like it!” Margot rubbed her hands together. “Let’s play battle of the sexes! First round Breezy and Neve versus Tor and Jed.”

  “Hey now, this isn’t going to be fair.” Neve hoped her sarcastic drawl hid the fact her nipples could cut glass.

  “It’s going to be awkward when we school you boys in front of the whole bar,” Breezy crowed.

  “You’re that good, huh?” Tor said patronizingly.

  “Not me.” Breezy held up her hands and shook her head. “Her.”

  “I’ve been hearing for a while that Neve here has mad air-hockey skills.” Jed fed a dollar into a machine, nodding to a trio of college girls who snapped his picture before rushing off in a fit of giggles.

  Breezy didn’t even bat an eye.

  “Doesn’t that ever bother you?” Neve whispered.

  “Nah, why should it? I mean, he is gorgeous. Let ’em look.” She winked. “I’m the one going home with him at the end of the night.”

  Neve’s laugh felt hollow. Her sister was confident in her love. So optimistic in his devotion that trust came as easily to her as breathing. No doubt or hesitation. Could love really be like that?

  The puck went whizzing by her defenses into the goal.

  “Hellions one, Angels zero.” Tor smirked. He was back to his usual self, no trace of the passionate man from minutes ago. All cool confidence. Handsome and untouchable. His Scandinavian features were as severe and inscrutable as a Norse god’s.

  “It’s like that, is it?” She dropped her chin and pushed up her sleeves. “That point was a gift.”

  He rolled his eyes. “That a fact?”

  “Stick it on Wikipedia and let it be known.”

  “All right, trash talkers. Let’s sweeten the pot,” Margot said, ripping the hair elastic off her wrist and tying her long brown hair up into a ponytail.

  “What are we talking about here, a wager?” Jed drawled. “Because I could call in a whole lot of favors.”

  Breezy blew him a kiss.

  Before Neve could say anything that included the words gag and me, Tor broke in. “The winners get to call in a favor from the losers. One deed.”

  A few minutes ago she’d played tonsil hockey with this guy. And he hadn’t treated her like a cold fish but a triple
-layered chocolate-fudge cake. Then he’d ignored her. Now he wanted a favor if she lost? No way.

  But at the exact same time, an idea dropped on her head with the force of a cartoon anvil . . . If she won, she could force him to agree to an exclusive no-holds-barred, in-depth profile. Forget the measly top-five article. She’d grill him hard. Figure out what made him tick. Ask nosy questions to her heart’s content.

  If he wanted to mess with her, she’d mess back.

  “Deal,” Neve shot back. “As long as it’s not illegal.”

  Jed groaned. “Where’s the fun in that?”

  “Enough, you.” Breezy giggled as if this was some sort of private joke.

  Double ew. Neve was happy to let them have their mystery. Some things she just really, really didn’t want to know, like what her sister got up to in the boudoir. “Enough chitchat.” She set her striker on the table. “Got to be in it to win it.”

  Because she’d win. Probably. The problem was . . . Breezy sucked at air hockey. She loved her sister, but as she blocked one of Jed’s blank shots and pulled back quickly to guard the goal, Neve had to concede the obvious. They were outmatched.

  From the sly look in Jed’s eyes, it seemed as if he knew exactly what favor he wanted to collect from her sister. And from the erratic, clumsy way Breezy kept trying to score, there was a real and pressing danger that her own teammate might be throwing the game to be in her boyfriend’s debt.

  But Tor wasn’t flirting. Or smiling. He played like a man possessed. She’d never seen him on the ice, at least not in person. There was a chance she’d once dredged up some old footage from his Gopher days on YouTube while devouring an entire pint of Cherry Garcia.

  But that fact was never to be spoken about, or acknowledged.

  She doubled down on the offense, scoring a point, but then Breezy bumped her elbow as she tried to play defense. They were back to being tied for the game point.

  “This is it, ladies and gentleman,” Margot drawled in a deep, announcer-type voice. “The moment of truth.” And she wasn’t just hamming it up for her own amusement. A small crowd had gathered, recording the game on their phones. She’d bet five bucks that the majority of these women were focused on capturing shots of Jed West, although to give Coach his credit, he wasn’t without his own cadre of female admirers.

  “Come on,” she snapped to her sister. “Let’s get it together.”

  Her potshot fooled Jed as she tricked him with a fake out by intentionally aiming her shot not into their goal but off the table in front of him, sending the puck back, where she could quickly attack with a rebound.

  But Tor, damn it, he was too much of a coach, cataloguing her plays and reviewing her weaknesses. He was ready for the pump fake and stopped it short. Then he struck his mallet hard, sending the puck bouncing off a side wall.

  Neve saw it coming. She knew she could stop it. But he played with such a strange intensity that her own curiosity was sparked. If she was in Tor Gunnar’s debt, what favor would he request? Her mind screamed No! but her body was . . . curious.

  And his puck slipped into her goal.

  “Oh darn!” Breezy squealed, sounding less than dismayed.

  Neve lifted her gaze straight to Tor’s. Her cheeks heated. He stared back, a flicker of confusion crossing his face. It had been subtle, but he knew she’d just thrown the game.

  But he didn’t know why.

  And that made two of them. Damn it. She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear and glanced away. She’d just thrown away one heck of a professional coup. And for what?

  He’d likely humiliate her in some way. What would it be . . .? Stroll down 16th Ave. dressed in a tutu? Go to a karaoke bar and sing “Don’t Stop Believing”?

  “Good game,” Margot said as they filed back into their booth. “Now the winners get to call in the debt. This should be interesting.”

  “That’s one word for it,” Jed said.

  “Stop,” Breezy pleaded in a giddy tone that made it clear they had about two more minutes before she asked to close the tab and run home.

  “Inquiring minds want to know.” Neve addressed her comment to Tor, even as she studied her drink. “What’s it going to be? I know my pride is about to take a beating so let’s get the suspense over with.” Her stomach felt so tense that there was no way she’d risk a sip at this point. The last thing she needed to do was choke at the table.

  Or get more mouth to mouth from the coach.

  “I thought it over and you are all right. I can’t go to my ex’s wedding alone.” Tor’s tone was pure confident arrogance, even as he drummed his index finger on the table.

  Neve’s body didn’t have time to release a flood of adrenaline before she was hit with the second part of his statement.

  “Since you lost, Neve, you’ll go with me. Two days in Telluride. Ever been?”

  “I- I had friends go there for music festivals while I was at college, but I always stayed behind to do summer school,” she managed to stammer, trying to comprehend the magnitude of what he just said.

  “Then it’s a date. I’ll send you the details.”

  “A . . . date,” Neve repeated blankly.

  He nodded once, a dare in his eyes.

  Whisky. Tango. Foxtrot. Her stomach did its best impersonation of an amusement-park log ride and splashed down to her toes.

  Because no matter how much she wanted to pretend, she couldn’t fake that the kiss in the bathroom hadn’t felt oh, so real. He might be setting her up for a fall, but she couldn’t quite stop herself from tiptoeing to the edge.

  She needed to keep her head in the game. Look for the opportunity. After all, for better or worse, she’d be alone, more or less, for a weekend with Tor Gunnar, the biggest enigma in NHL coaching, and she’d figure out what made him tick at last—by hook or crook.

  She couldn’t wait to tell Scott about the trip. This was just the kind of opportunity that would cause her editor to freak out.

  When life handed her lemons, she made delicious lemonade.

  Two deep lines materialized between his brows—at least he had the good sense to look concerned.

  “Game on,” she said blithely, picking up her drink and giving him a toast. “After all, I’ve never been over to Telluride. It will be an . . . adventure.” Perfect. She’d swashbuckled through his little dare with expert precision. All the points to her.

  You don’t scare me, Tor Gunnar.

  She took a long swallow of the margarita, the frozen slush sluicing over her front teeth and creating one heck of a brain freeze. Try as she might, she couldn’t hold back a wince, because all her tough talk sat on a throne of lies. Tor Gunnar might not scare her, but the unfathomable expression in his eyes sure as heck did.

  He had an agenda. She needed to figure out what it was for her own sanity.

  Chapter Eight

  Tor sat, disoriented. The clock beside his bed read three in the morning. Looked like he’d fallen asleep after all. The way he’d tossed and turned after the bar, he’d figured it would be another one of those restless nights where he watched the sun rise.

  The phone ring registered in his sleep-drunk brain.

  “Shit.” He sprang into action. His first thought was Olive. But the number on the screen was unfamiliar. One of the guys?

  “Hello?” he said, frowning.

  “It’s stupid to call, but I can’t sleep. I need to know why. Why’d you do it?”

  The familiar woman’s voice jolted him like a triple-shot espresso. “Neve?”

  “Do you enjoy messing with me, is that it?” Her tone was strained. “Because I’ve been going over tonight’s events with a fine-tooth comb and nothing adds up. I mean, you went and ate my face after informing my colleagues that I was a cold fish. Then you rearranged that dumbass frat boy’s face after he insulted me. And then the coup de grace . . . an invite to a weekend away in Telluride? For your wife’s wedding?”

  “She is my ex-wife,” he bit back. “Very much ex.”

>   “Still . . . color me confused, Coach.”

  “What’s so hard to understand?” He kicked off the comforter and eased back against his headboard. A shaft of moonlight shone on the end of the bed; if he reached out he’d be able to touch it. “Who knows? Maybe I’m interested in getting to know you more.”

  “Good story. Except does the phrase ‘fuck a penguin’ ring a bell?”

  Shit. He’d said that. And the stupid cold fish comment. Both were knee-jerk reactions designed to deflect attention from the truth . . . that he couldn’t get enough of this maddening woman. He’d acted like a middle school doofus, teasing the girl he crushed on.

  He wasn’t proud.

  “All I can guess is that you must enjoy torturing your enemies.”

  “Was kissing me torture?” His cock stirred in his boxer briefs at the memory.

  “Don’t fuck around, Gunnar.”

  “Nice mouth you’ve got.”

  She made a choking sound. “Pot meet kettle.”

  “I’ll be honest. I am interested, all right? I think you know that though. I think you’ve always known. And what’s more . . . I think you might be curious too.”

  Silence dragged. For a second he wondered if she’d hung up. Maybe he was reading this all wrong.

  “Well . . . this is an unexpected direction.”

  “I’m full of surprises.” He raked a hand through his hair. The darkness made him honest. “But here’s more truth. I’m glad you agreed to come to the wedding. I’m glad you said yes.”

  “It can’t be an easy event.” She cleared her throat. “I mean, you loved your ex, right?”

  “Once upon a time. But it wasn’t a fairy tale. We’ve been co-parents for years and it’s Olive who wants me there.”

  “Your daughter.”

  “She’s ten.” Not many things made him smile on demand, but Olive always did. “And I don’t want you worrying about logistics. We’ll have separate rooms. I’ve already called the hotel. I’m not looking to take advantage of you.”

  “I see,” she replied, sounding a little confused. He didn’t blame her. Nor was he being entirely truthful.